Overwhelmed
by The Seamonkey
Summary: There are times when Hermione feels overwhelmed by the developments in her relationship with Ron, and finds herself looking elsewhere for shelter and shade from the too-hot sun.
1. Overcast

**In which Hermione finds herself feeling overwhelmed by her new relationship with Ron.**

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_Age eighteen, Hogwarts Castle._

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"I love you."

Hermione blinked, and a roaring, rushing sound filled her ears. She looked at Ron. His face was so open and earnest. Her hands, holding a bundle of bandages, shook a little. They were on their way up to the Hospital Wing, bringing supplies to help those wounded in the battle the day before—Voldemort and his Death Eaters had been killed, at last, but at a price. There was always a price.

"I—I'm glad," she stammered. What kind of an answer was that? "I mean, I love you too." She managed a shaky smile, and Ron's face lit up with relief. He stopped walking and tugged on her sleeve, turning her around to kiss her; Hermione hurt her neck a little by stretching over her armload to reach him. She started to pull away, but he put his hands on either side of her face to keep her there. The familiar feeling of exasperation that rose up in her was drowned in a swell of guilt. He just wanted to show affection. That was fine. And it wasn't that she didn't _enjoy_ kissing him. It was only that she had this armful of bandages, awkward and in the way, and she wanted to get to the Hospital Wing already to put them down.

Eventually she had to shift to precariously balance the entire bundle in the crook of one arm to free her other hand, which she used to gently push Ron away. He looked a little hurt. She smiled at him, which seemed to help, and then allowed him to put his arm around her shoulders as they walked on down the corridor, even though their paces weren't entirely synced up due to his longer legs and he kept jostling her.

Her mind raced. Goodness, that was fast. They'd had their first kiss a day and a half ago and he was already telling her he loved her. She supposed it wasn't the end of the world. A man who could express affection openly was a good man to have around. She worried, though, about her response. _I'm glad._ It seemed to her that declarations of love should come after a while of being with a person, measured in weeks or months, not days. And she supposed, yes, it was valid enough because they'd been friends for so long and really, in the past couple of years there had been a kind of a slow courtship going on that neither of them _really_ fathomed until, well, things happened, so yes, she could certainly understand where Ron was coming from. Still, it felt a little fast.

They reached the Hospital Wing without dropping any of the bandages, which Hermione counted as a small victory. They were taken out of her arms by a volunteer nurse who whisked by, in the middle of three tasks already, no doubt. Hermione cast her gaze around the packed room. Every bed was filled, and there were people lying on cots and conjured mattresses on the floor between the beds as well. Volunteers bustled and hurried around the room administering whatever aid was needed. Everyone spoke in hushed, tired tones. Hermione's eyes rested on a dark-haired young man crouching beside a cot, holding the hand of a little girl whose arm was wrapped in stained bandages from shoulder to fingertips. She was just in the last stages of falling asleep. Hermione's gaze softened.

Ron put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "I'm going to go find my mum and dad. Come with me?"

"I think I'll help out up here for a while," she said, and internally smothered another pang of irritation when Ron sighed dejectedly and nodded.

"Alright. Give us a kiss." She turned her head and pecked him on the cheek, not really feeling in the mood for a lip-smack in the middle of all these people and all the injured, and he put on a mopey, mournful look that made her grit her teeth. "Come on," he said, and kissed her mouth. It always felt like it went on just a second or two too long. He cupped her cheek in one hand. "Love you."

_Merlin, again?_ Hermione forced a smile. "Mhm, you too." Couldn't he see what was going on in the room around him? Didn't it make him the slightest bit uncomfortable? It certainly did her.

Ron left. Hermione walked over to the end of the cot with the sleeping little girl. Her attendant looked up, and the corners of his green eyes creased in a smile when he saw Hermione there. "Hey," said Harry, standing. Hermione stepped forward and rested her forehead on his chest. He laid a hand on her back. A smile ghosted across her face and she relaxed.

"Hey."

This felt comfortable. This felt normal. Harry helped her to feel less...overwhelmed.


	2. Dark Clouds on the Horizon

**In which Hermione feels like her life—and her relationship with Ron in particular—is moving too fast.**

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_Age twenty-one, Hodgepodge Lodge Dining Hall, Ottery St. Catchpole._

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"...And so, without any more beating about the bush...Hermione Granger, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Hermione felt a dizzying silence fall over her as everyone else at the table seemed to disappear. She was alone, an island of hushed, held breath. Ron, down on one knee before her, even seemed to fade away. Marry him. It felt...her parents had gotten married when they were twenty-seven and thirty. She was barely twenty-one. Wasn't it a bit soon? Weren't they a bit young? She supposed witches and wizards got married quite a bit younger than Muggles did, but still.

This felt too soon. She was still in med school, for Merlin's sake, still with a year to go before she graduated and became a fully qualified Healer at St. Mungo's! Shouldn't they wait, really, until they had two incomes? Was Ron thinking of buying a house, or were they going to live in their little flat in Ottery St. Catchpole forever?

Oh god, and everyone was staring—why did Ron have to propose _here,_ why _now?_ Molly, Arthur, George and Angelina, Percy and Audrey, god, _Harry_ was sitting right there with Ginny who was clutching her own engagement ring she'd received only last month—Bill and Fleur, round-bellied with late pregnancy...all looking on with baited breath and tears in their eyes, how could she bloody ask him to talk about this? How could she possibly, _possibly_ say anything with everyone there?

"Goodness, I feel faint," she blurted out, and the tension was broken by everyone laughing. Her stomach churned. No choice, really. "Yes, I'll marry you, Ron."

The next few minutes were a blur of ecstatic applause and congratulations, pounding of backs and tearful hugs and gleeful grins, sitting down and standing up and pouring of more wine and toasts, goodness, the toasts seemed to go on forever; more congratulations and dizzying levels of excitement all around her.

Molly came over to give Hermione a second hug, wiping away tears of happiness. "My dear," she said, patting Hermione's cheek, "I'm _so_ happy for the both of you. Now, I've been talking to Arthur, and with all of our boys and Ginny all grown up and moved out, we've been thinking that the Burrow is a bit too big for just the two of us. How would you like it as a wedding present?"

The bottom dropped out of Hermione's stomach and her jaw fell open. "I—I couldn't possibly—"

"Now, now, it's all arranged," tutted Molly, beaming up at Hermione. "Bill and Fleur have their own place already, Ginny and Harry are looking at houses in Godric's Hollow, George is set up in his place up atop his shop in Diagon Alley of course, Percy's living in London, you and Ron are the natural choice! Don't you worry your pretty head about it; it will all be taken care of for you. You just concentrate on planning the wedding!"

"I—I don't know what to say," said Hermione weakly.

"Just say thank you," Molly smiled. "Good girl." She gave Hermione another pinch on the cheek and went over to talk to Ron, presumably about the Burrow. Hermione stood with one hand on her forehead and one hand on her hip. _Deep breaths._ In the midst of the commotion she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned.

Harry looked down at her. "You look like you need some air. I'll distract them."

Words could not express the wave of gratitude she felt. Harry squeezed her shoulder and went over to Ron and Molly, draping his arms around them and gently turning them so they faced away from Hermione, who slipped away between the other tables in the dining hall and made her way outside.

She leaned against the brick wall of the building and sighed up at the evening sky, feeling the cool breeze on her face as a relief from the pressuring heat inside. Merlin. She was getting married. She looked down at her left hand, held out in front of her. The ring wasn't spectacular; just a simple gold band set with three little diamonds that sparkled in the light from the streetlamp that had just flickered on. She liked it, really. It suited her. Practical, or as practical as an engagement ring could be; not too much flash, nothing that would stick out and catch on things.

_Deep breaths. _ Marriage. She was only twenty-one. It wasn't that she was unhappy. It was just overwhelming.


	3. Stormy Seas

**In which Hermione feels as though she's in over her head, and it begins to show.**

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_Age twenty-two, the second-largest room at Belle's Bed and Breakfast, Godric's Hollow._

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The white dress hanging on the wardrobe door seemed to glow in the moonlight.

Hermione felt like there was a lead weight in the pit of her stomach as she stared at it. She didn't admit to being afraid very often. She hadn't voiced her concerns aloud to anyone, not even Harry. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, gripping the bed sheets, and she consciously relaxed them, only to have them clench again a moment later as another slow, rolling wave of dread passed through her stomach.

She was getting married tomorrow.

Molly and Arthur had officially moved out of the Burrow. The last of their things had been packed off to their new little cottage just outside of Ottery St. Catchpole—they would never move far away from their old home—last week, and Molly had spent days cleaning the place up to make it ready for Ron and Hermione to move in once they got back from their honeymoon. Everything Hermione owned was in boxes, ready to be moved from their flat, except for the things she was taking on holiday, which were in her trunk.

The past few months had been some of the busiest of her life. Finishing her degree, getting settled to start her first job as a Healer in the fall, planning the double wedding, preparing to move into the Burrow...it was almost too much at once.

Ginny had originally resisted the double wedding idea. She'd wanted to have a big splashy wedding of her own with all the focus on her, which was fair enough Hermione supposed, it was the most special day of her life and all, but Harry had eventually talked her into it. It had been Molly's idea in the first place, seconded by Ron, and they'd worked on convincing everyone else until it was all agreed. It was being held at the park near Harry and Ginny's new house. All four soon-to-be-newlyweds were staying here at Belle's Bed and Breakfast for the night in separate rooms, along with the rest of the wedding party and a small selection of the vast guest list—those who would be attending the double wedding itself. The rest would be Apparating in tomorrow afternoon for the reception.

Hermione tried to concentrate on breathing. She couldn't tear her eyes away from her wedding dress. A slight breeze sighed in through the half-open window, rustling the skirts. She swallowed.

Somewhere towards the centre of town, the clock tower chimed one in the morning, shattering the stillness in the room. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly; this was ridiculous. Tomorrow was supposed to be a _happy_ day. She was getting married. Her best friends were getting married too, for Merlin's sake; she tried to focus on feeling happy, thinking through all the reasons she was in love with Ron, all the sweet things he did for her, or tried to anyway; she thought about the fun she and Ginny had had picking the flowers, lilies and orchids, and concentrated on how beautiful the park would be tomorrow when she and Ginny walked down the path together, escorted by their fathers on either side...

But all Hermione could see right now was her wedding dress. And all she could feel was suffocation.

In a breath she found herself standing and walking towards the door. It didn't squeak when she opened it. The narrow corridor was carpeted, soft beneath her bare feet; she tiptoed silently down the hall, past Ginny's room, glancing out the window at the end and pausing to look out at the moonlit lawn before continuing up the stairs to the third floor where the boys were sleeping. One door, two doors, three doors down; she paused, hand raised to knock, and froze with her arm in the air.

She wasn't dressed properly, just in a barely-there silk white night-robe, not even pajamas underneath. It was summer, and hot. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen her in less. There was something, though, something...there were rules about seeing people the night before weddings, bad luck, and her stomach clenched in a spasm of guilt, but she set her jaw, tried to force herself to knock, because she needed him, she _needed_ to talk to him, but...something stopped her from knocking. Slowly her fingers relaxed out of the fist, and she trailed them silently down the door, feeling the grains of the wood. Why couldn't she knock?

A slow, silent and shuddering sob shook her slight frame, once. She turned around and sank to the floor in one fluid motion with her back against his door and wiped at the few tears that slid down her cheeks. What was wrong with her? Tomorrow was going to be the happiest day of her life; she should be sleeping now so that it would come sooner. Her new life was about to start. So why did it feel like she was almost out of time?

She wasn't sure how long she sat there crying silently, unmoving, leaning against his closed door, hoping it would somehow open. Minutes, maybe, or half an hour. Nothing happened. No one in the building stirred. Hermione felt drowned by her helplessness, her failure to act, the failure of her courage. She couldn't understand what was tormenting her so much on the night before her wedding.

Eventually she sighed, and began to slowly push herself up to her feet. She was unsteady for a moment and caught herself on his door frame. Her head felt too heavy to lift, but she lifted it. She made her way back downstairs and tiptoed into the bathroom she and Ginny shared, across the hall from her own room, and splashed some cool water on her face. She left the sink running for a minute and stared into the mirror, bewildered as to why her eyes wouldn't dry.

When she finally got back into her bedroom, shut the door, and slipped between the sheets, the last thing she saw was her wedding dress, glowing in the moonlight, and the last thought she had was to wonder why, on the night before her wedding, it had been so important to her that she go to Harry's room.


	4. The Eye of the Hurricane

**In which a life-changing event occurs and Hermione's husband is not the first person she wants to tell.**

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_Age twenty-five, Godric's Hollow._

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"I'm pregnant."

Hermione's hair whipped around in the chill November breeze. Her orange scarf flapped around her neck and she tucked her hands deeper into her coat pockets, glancing briefly up at the overcast sky. Harry's smile faded around the edges as he took in her expression. He must have wondered, in that moment, why she wasn't smiling herself.

"Come in," he said, and stepped back, holding the door open for her. Hermione hesitated. Harry half-shrugged and tilted his head towards the entranceway, saying, "Ginny's over at Francesca's with James. He and Emma are having a play date."

Hermione nodded, a small motion, and followed him inside.

A few minutes later they sat cross-legged facing each other on opposite ends of his couch, mugs of steaming hot chocolate in their hands. Hermione stared into hers, unseeing. Harry gave her a moment or two, and then asked. "You're pregnant?" Hermione nodded, and it was Harry's turn to hesitate. "Do...you want to talk about it?"

Hermione hunched her shoulders as if to ward off emotion. Her mouth started talking without consulting her mind and words spilled out without making sense. "I don't—I feel like it's—it's too, I don't know what to—I can't, I don't..."

"Shh, it's alright," Harry said, putting his mug down on the coffee table and scooting forward on the couch. He gently took Hermione's mug out of her hands, set it down on a coaster beside his, and helped her to lie down. She tucked her feet up onto the couch and laid her head in his lap, shivering. "It's okay," he said. "What's wrong? It is Ron's, isn't it?"

Hermione grinned weakly. "Of course it's Ron's, whose else would it be?" Harry looked down at her. There was a pause during which her insides churned uncomfortably, and she lowered her gaze. "Whose else. There hasn't ever _been_ anyone else." The words came out bitter. She thought of the stories her mother used to tell her about old boyfriends and her dating years, and here was Hermione, married at twenty-two, pregnant at twenty-five, only ever been with one person that she wasn't 100% certain was her soul mate but if she wanted to stay in the family she had to stay with him—and that was the real kicker at the heart of it all, she couldn't bear to leave the Weasley clan behind.

Harry's hands brushed her hair, drew it out of her face. Hermione shivered again and suddenly thought of what had happened three years ago on the night before her wedding, or almost happened—fear gripped her heart like icy iron fists. She was overreacting. The stress was getting to her. She felt wetness on her face and realized there were tears there; Harry murmured calming words to her and held her as she cried in his lap, frightened of her misery and of her inability to determine its cause. She _loved_ Ron. She _did_. Maybe it was just hormones and shock.

She was pregnant. _Pregnant._ She was going to have a _baby._ Nine months of preparation—Merlin, her life was going to change, everything, _everything_ was going to change. Her life from now on would be about the baby. Maternity leave—she would have to leave St. Mungo's for a year after the birth. How difficult would it be to go back afterwards? Did they have enough money to have a baby? They both had steady incomes, but children are expensive and _so_ much responsibility...would Ron expect Hermione to stay home and raise their child? There were so many things they hadn't talked about. They had been trying for a whole year now. How had they not had these discussions? All they had talked about—when they had talked about it at all—was how wonderful it would be to have a baby of their own.

And honestly, it was mostly Ron doing the talking.

"I'm not ready," she whispered. Harry kept holding her and rubbing her back. "I—I know it was fine for you and Ginny but I—I—Ron is so determined, we'd been, _he _had wanted...we've been trying for so long, I thought, I don't know, maybe we couldn't, but now...it's _happening,_ you know, and it's just so overwhelming, and Harry, Harry...I don't know if this is what I want." She paused then. Harry's fingers, brushing over her hair, slowed, then stopped. Hermione stared out at the room, looking at nothing. "I...I don't think this is what I want."

There was a long silence. She felt the warmth of his hand on her shoulder and was aware of her own breathing, the slight rising and falling of her chest. She became intensely aware of every place their bodies were touching—her back and side, his chest, his legs, her head on his thigh, his hand on her arm, in her hair, both completely still, barely breathing—adrenaline shot through her whole body and sent a wave of feeling from her head to her feet tucked up on the couch and her breath caught in her lungs. She shifted unconsciously and his hand, fingers threaded through her hair, moved a little. Her spine erupted with tingles. Oh, god.

"What..." His voice was raspy and deep, his throat dry. She felt him swallow, she was pressed up against him so closely. How had that happened? She tried to concentrate. He took one long, slow breath. "What _do_ you want?"

"I..." she tried to speak, but her voice shook. Hermione slowly turned her head. He was looking down at her.

The front door slammed.

"Harry?" called Ginny's voice from the entrance hall.

Twenty seconds later, Hermione was sitting in the armchair adjacent to the couch, demurely sipping her hot chocolate as Harry set down a copy of the Daily Prophet on the coffee table, turning to greet his wife with a smile as she walked into the living room. James, only a couple of months old, was balanced on Ginny's hip as she leaned down to kiss Harry. Hermione stood to hug her sister-in-law, exchanging pleasantries, placing a hand on Ginny's belly and asking if she could feel the next one coming yet, said no, she's not quite showing, and laughed at Ginny's tale of how little Emma spit up on Francesca just as she answered a phone call from her boss.

Hermione excused herself. She politely declined invitations to stay for dinner while she was there, no, she couldn't possibly intrude on such short notice, laughed off the ridiculousness of thinking she was ever intruding, kissed Ginny on the cheek and James on the top of his head, and accepted Harry's offer to see her to the door while Ginny disappeared into the kitchen, infant son still on her hip.

He closed the front door behind them and they stood there for a while in silence, looking anywhere but at each other. The wind whipped her hair around her face and flapped her orange scarf. They didn't say anything. She just left.


	5. Light Through Clouds

**In which a baby is born, and Hermione needs help with it.**

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_Age twenty-six, St. Mungo's Hospital, London._

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"Push, Hermione, you have to push!"

Hermione roared with pain. Sweat flew in salty drops as she flung her head back, face contorted, eyes screwed shut, mouth twisting as she _pushed,_ Merlin, like she'd never pushed before in her life. Another squeezing agony ripped through her lower body. "_Never! _Never again!" she shrieked.

Ron, holding one of her hands, put his free hand on her forehead and tried to smooth her drenched, tangled hair away from her face. "No more kids? Really?"

"Never again without _drugs!_ Or _magic!_ Or ANYTHING!"

"Ah," he said, sounding worried amid all the other noise in the room. "Yes, I did wonder about that, do you really think it was the wisest—"

Hermione whipped her head forward and focused the most murderous glare she could muster at the man she called her husband. "NOT. THE BEST. TIME."

"Er, right," Ron swallowed. "It's alright, next time we'll have plenty of magic; say, can we have magic now? My mum said you could do that sometimes, excuse me—" he let go of her hand, turning down towards the Healer bent over her spread knees. "Sorry, do you think we could have the pain-dulling spell now?"

The woman didn't stop to look up at him. "Sorry sir, if we try anything now it'll be too dangerous for the baby. Come on now, dear, you have to push again, try counting to five, alright? With me now, one, two—"

"FIVE!" Hermione gasped, and collapsed back onto the bed. The pain, the _agony,_ how did people _manage_it? How did the human race ever bloody survive? How could mothers decide to have _multiples_ of this monstrous procedure? Another contracting, debilitating paroxysm ripped through her and she screamed. God, it had been eleven hours already, _god, make it stop!_ Where was her mother to make all the pain go away? Damn it, in _stupid_ Australia, on that trip they'd planned ages before they knew her due date, hoped they'd make it back in time but of _course_ not, and now here she was in the _ridiculous_ hospital bed in St. Mungo's with Jessica Gordon, the Healer who delivered Harry and Ginny's James last year, which was all very well and good but Ginny had had a natural birth too and you didn't hear _her_ screaming bloody murder two floors away, no, little miss perfect-red-hair had an _easy_ birth! The nurses were _surprised_ at how easy it had been on her! Well wasn't that _BLOODY WONDERFUL!_

Another wail slipped out of her. She jerked her head forward and blew short puffs of air through her cheeks, squinting her eyes shut again as she pushed with all her might.

"Whew, that looked like a big one!"

Hermione slowly raised her head to glare some more daggers at her husband.

Ron bit his lip. "Are you alright? Do you need water? Mum says water's important to keep hydrated."

She couldn't lose focus to answer him. Push, had to _push_...

"Hermione?"

"One—two—three, four, _FIVE."_ She relaxed again, as much as she could relax in the process of giving birth, letting her head hit the pillow. She concentrated on breathing. Deep breaths, in and out, like the nice Healer said.

"How are you feeling? Can I do anything? My mum says it's good if I can breathe with you or something—"

"Ron, just shut up for a minute, okay? I'm _breathing._"

"Right, right, er, really? Alright, well, er—"

"Shut up!"

"Sorry!"

"_SHUT UP!_ _ ARGH!"_ she yelled as she hunched up to follow the next contraction. Damn it! Damn him! Damn everything! "I am never letting you touch me again, Ronald—Bilius—Weasley!" she shouted, pushing between each word. "No more children! No more codswalloped—flea-bitten—butt-biting—giant-headed—slug-brained—fiendish—bloody, bloody _children! Oh my god it hurts!_"

The Healer glanced up at Hermione from between her knees and gave her a critical eye. "It's alright, Hermione, you just need to keep pushing for me. Can you do that?"

"No, no no no," Hermione whispered, shaking her head, deflating as the air went out of her lungs. Her arms shook as she supported herself on her elbows. "No more. Aren't we done yet?"

"I'm afraid not. You can rest for a few moments, but then I need you to keep going, okay?"

Hermione felt tears mix with the sweat on her cheeks, panting. "No, I want it to be _over,_ can't it be _done?_"

"How much longer do you think it's gonna be, Doc?" put in Ron. Hermione groaned, but he just grabbed her hand again and patted her head. "My mum's labours only lasted a few hours each, she told me—well?"

"It depends," she said, and looked at Hermione. "Are you ready to keep pushing?"

Hermione couldn't stop shaking her head. "No, I'm scared," she whispered. "It hurts too much. I want—I just want—"

"Water? D'you want some water? I can get some, if you like, here," Ron said, trying to be helpful, she was sure, but all he was doing was irritating her. She glared at him, fatigued beyond words. He bustled back from the sink, nearly bumping into one of the nurses and apologizing clumsily. "Here—it'll be good for you, don't want to get dehydrated y'know, my mum says—"

"RON!" Hermione shouted, finding her strength again in anger. He shut up. She struggled to sit up, the Healer protesting as she did. "I don't give a TINY RAT'S ASS about what _your mum bloody says!_" She lifted one shaking arm and pointed at the door. "You are not making me comfortable! You are not making this easier! SO UNTIL YOU CAN DO BOTH OF THOSE THINGS, GET OUT OF THIS ROOM!"

Ron blinked, and glanced at the Healer. She shrugged. He scurried out.

Hermione fell back onto the bed, weeping weakly from exhaustion. After a minute or so, the Healer cleared her throat, exchanging significant glances with the nurses; then she shifted her weight and bent down over Hermione's knees again. "Ready to go?" Above her, Hermione shook her head. How could she keep going? It hurt, Merlin, it _hurt..._this was impossible. She didn't want to push anymore. It wasn't the Healer's fault, she knew, but she couldn't go on. The woman sighed. "Another minute, then, but you have to start pushing again soon, dear."

Moments later, the door opened and Ron entered, followed by Harry.

"Hullo, Hermione," Ron said, cringing a little. "I just thought you might—"

"OUT!" she bellowed, unable to sit straight up or even point. Both men hurriedly turned around, but one of them stopped when an agonized cry tore from Hermione's throat. Harry looked back, pausing in the doorway, his face creased with concern. Hermione brought her hands up to her face and cried helplessly for a few seconds, then saw Harry murmur something to Ron, who shrugged. Her husband went back out into the hall, closing the door behind him, and Harry walked towards her, coming around the side of the bed to take one of her hands in both of his, green eyes kind.

"How you holding up, beautiful?"

Oh, she wept.

"Here, now," he murmured, brushing sweaty hair back from her forehead. "I know it's hard. It's the hardest thing."

"It's so hard," she mumbled, hiccupping.

"I know." Harry made her look at him. "You're the bravest person I know for doing this."

"G-Ginny did it," Hermione wailed. "Why is it _worse?_ It's not _fair!_" She didn't even have the energy to pound her fists on the bed. She trembled all over.

Harry cupped her cheek in one warm hand. "You're doing so well, it puts her to shame," he said.

Hermione felt more tears spill over. "I just want it to be _over!_ I want to be done!"

"You've got to keep going to be done, 'Mione," Harry said, and kissed her cheek. "You're brilliant. You can do this. You _are_ doing this. Just think of the baby. How amazing is it going to feel when you get to hold her, eh?"

"I guess," she whimpered.

"Keep thinking about Baby Rosie. You want to see her, don't you?"

"Yeah," Hermione said, nodding, nervous.

"Me too," said Harry. "I can't wait to meet her. Do you think you can push again?"

Hermione shook her head quickly, eyes filling up again. "It _hurts_ too much."

"I'll be right here with you. You can break my hand if you want. We're in a hospital, after all."

She hesitated, then looked down at the huge swell of her belly, and Jessica the Healer's sober face down beyond Hermione's knees at the foot of the birthing bed. Hermione gulped. The Healer nodded. Hermione adjusted her grip more firmly on Harry's hand and swallowed hard. "Okay," she whispered, and pushed.

Two hours later, Hermione looked down at her arms, at the tiny, silent bundle there, wrapped in pink, with her nose all scrunched up, a few wisps of reddish hair sticking out of the blankets, eyes wrinkled shut in sleep. Hermione couldn't tear her gaze away. Beautiful Baby Rosie.

She didn't look up when the door opened almost soundlessly. Ron, she expected. Nothing could make her look away from her baby, not after what she'd gone through to bring her into the world, no way. She traced her daughter's cheeks, fingertips ghosting along Rosie's skin so as not to wake her. Hermione felt the bed sink under someone else's weight as they sat down beside her.

"She's gorgeous," Harry said quietly.

Hermione nodded.

They sat in silence, and Harry slid his arm around Hermione, both of them gazing down at the sleeping infant, watching Hermione's fingers brush her tiny, chubby cheeks. She laid her head on his shoulder, not taking her eyes away. Briefly she wondered where her husband was, and, feeling Harry's warmth around her, remembered with a painful pang an afternoon nine months ago in November when she'd told Harry she was pregnant before she told anyone else. She told herself it was because he'd already helped one woman through childbirth that he'd been able to calm her so, help her through, but it was more than that, if she was being honest with herself. Perhaps it was at last time to be honest.

Harry's presence calmed her. He made her able to see more clearly, think better. It was easy, just being with him. Comfortable. Not overwhelming. She didn't have to worry about offending him with little things she'd say, didn't have to pretend to care about things she couldn't care less about just so as not to hurt his feelings, didn't have to be perfect all the time. It was just easy. He was escape from the tumult that the Weasleys could be. Hermione focused on breathing and tried not to think about the fact that he was here with her and Ron wasn't, but if she was being truly honest, it was more peaceful this way.

"Ron's just getting Molly from downstairs," Harry murmured. "Everyone else will be here soon. I thought you could use a heads-up."

He always knew. How did he always know what she needed? Gaze never leaving her baby, her head never moving from its resting place on Harry's shoulder, Hermione took a breath. She held it, then let it out slowly. A warm, late-summer breeze blew in through the open window. It stirred her hair. Time to be honest. She opened her mouth.

The door burst open.

The words died in her throat, unspoken, as the redheaded clan poured into the room, and for the millionth time in her life Hermione was swept up in a storm of congratulations and praise and a suffocating amount of smiling, well-meant hugs. She bit her lip as Ron took Baby Rosie from her; he lifted her carefully, as though she were made of glass, but Hermione's heart still lurched. He touched Rosie's nose. "She looks like a tomato!" he exclaimed, and everyone laughed. Hermione's shoulders fell, just a little.

She felt Harry give her a squeeze, still sitting on the bed with his arm around her. "I think she's perfect," he countered, and was met with a chorus of solid agreements.

Ron blustered. "Well, obviously," he said, and the Weasleys chuckled good-naturedly again. Hermione saw Rosie start to wiggle, ever so slightly, and involuntarily Hermione reached her arms out for her.

"I'll take her back, please," she said.

Ron didn't even glance at her. "Just a minute, just a minute," he said—and then the infant girl began to wail.

He gave Rosie back to Hermione and she snuggled the baby, cooing and rocking her gently back and forth. After a minute or so the girl began to calm down. Hermione smiled tiredly, for the first time in what seemed like ages. She looked up to see tears in all the women's eyes, Molly snuffling especially loud. Rosie made a baby sound. Hermione's heart felt full. She rested her head on Harry's shoulder again and saw Ron shift his weight uncomfortably. Harry noticed, too. He gently stood, making room for Ron on the bed, and her husband sat down in his place, hugging Hermione tightly. She just gazed down at Rosie. How could she ever say anything to mar the world of this beautiful, wonderful, perfect baby?

Perhaps the time for being honest was past.


	6. Shade In Sun

**In which an empty house stir loneliness in Hermione's heart.**

* * *

_Age thirty-nine, the Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole._

* * *

The stairs at the Burrow always creaked. The house, so ancient and haphazard, had no sense of...sense, and in the years Hermione had lived there, she hadn't found one step that didn't have its own unique creak. Every floorboard had one, every corner, every dip in the centre of a room; if she listened carefully enough, concentrating, she could identify where someone was in the house just by the squeaks of their tread. It was a place meant to be noisy, built to be filled with family, creaking their way all through and about, the echoes muffled by bustle and activity and conversation.

It made the silence now more painful.

Hermione sat on the top step of the staircase between the main floor and the second, on the landing there. She clutched a cooling mug of cocoa. It had long since ceased to steam. Her eyes stared into space, looking at nothing, wide and glazed, as she listened to the acute sound of emptiness.

It was September second.

Both of her children were gone away at Hogwarts, for the first time, as of yesterday at eleven. Hermione heard a wind blow by outside. The wooden bones of the Burrow stretched and sighed, groaning. Ron had been called in to work. Some perp had been brought in, and Ron needed to file the paperwork on him before the twenty-four hour holding time was up. He didn't usually work on weekends, but it happened. She knew he'd been putting off some of that filing, too. "I'll get around to it," he'd said. Well.

Now she was alone in the house on a windy, grey Saturday afternoon, with nothing but the creaking in her ears to keep her company. And the ghoul in the attic, she supposed. But it mostly slept these days; it was getting on in years, old thing.

There was nothing left here with her, now. There were no more barriers. It had been thirteen years since she'd had the Burrow to herself for any significant length of time. Always a crisis to coolly solve, a meal to prepare, a child to soothe or scold or hug or teach or play with, a husband to deal with, to talk to. Things to distract her. She'd spent all the rest of yesterday and all of today until now cleaning the Burrow from attic to cellar. Toys were organized, put away for three seasons. Merlin, what was she going to _do_ for the next ten months? Where would she find herself without Rosie and Hugo when Ron was at work?

Maybe she would go back to full time at St. Mungo's. Hermione made a mental note to talk to Ellen, the ward manager, on Monday. Something would have to fill her days. It hadn't even been two days they'd been gone yet and look at her. Sitting on the stairs alone, refusing to go into either child's room behind her.

Hermione could handle fighting with Ron. She dealt with his sheepish obedience to his mother. She could weather Rose's adolescent tantrums, Hugo's pranks, hosting Weasley gatherings because she lived in the only place big enough to accommodate the clan, Ron's late nights. She enjoyed the challenge of her job, didn't mind being on call because she knew she was saving lives every time she went in, and was the only Healer on her floor who could handle Ellen, their immediate superior. She had fought with a cool head in a war before her eighteenth birthday. She had raised her children well.

Hermione could not deal with the aching emptiness of her home, with the absence of two children and a husband. And there was one more thing. But that was kept in a locked corner of her heart, and she had thrown away the key the day her daughter had been born.

_Tap tap tap._

Hermione lifted her head.

_Tap tap._

There was an owl at the kitchen window.

Hermione slowly got to her feet, wincing at the ache in her bones to match the creak of the stairs, and went down to the kitchen, putting the mug on the counter as she crossed to the window above the sink. A big, beautiful dark brown horned owl gazed soberly in at her, a rolled-up note tied to its claw. Hermione felt a smile warm her face as she twisted the latch and lifted the window to let the owl in. "Hello, Romulus," she said, and received a regal fluffing of feathers that could be taken for a nod, or a bow. She smiled more widely. The horned owl extended the claw to Hermione, who untied the note attached. Romulus began to preen as she read.

_ Hermione –_

_ I'm going mad without the kids here. Ginny's out with her friends. Meet for coffee or a Butterbeer? I know a little place._

_ – Harry_

It was in that moment, reading that letter, that Hermione felt, even as the smile grew deeper, some part of her start searching for the key to that melting box in a hidden corner of her heart. The place inside of her where secret truths left unspoken lay. Where she retreated when life was too overwhelming to deal with by herself. On her own. There was, still, even now, a part of her that knew and acknowledged that she had married the wrong man. That part of her was kept under lock and key, and she had thrown the key away. Had tried to. Had thought she had. What did you do? What could she, ever, do?

Nothing, was the answer the rest of her heart had always given. Because she valued his friendship too much, valued her family too much. Loved them too. She could lean on him when she needed to, as evidenced. He was unfailingly there for her when Ron was being unfathomably dense. He was cool water to scorched skin. Shade from too-hot sun. She was only ever fully at ease with him, could let her worries and cares and stresses and burdens be set aside for a while when she'd sit and talk with him for a while. He could be that for her, be her balm. Everyone had someone they could relax around. For many it was their spouses; for Hermione, it was Harry Potter. Unobtrusive, unassuming, boy hero, best friend. No more, and certainly no less. When he held her hand she closed her eyes. Certainly never less. It was manageable, though. She could handle loving him. She had.

_Harry –_

_ Read my mind. Pick me up._

_ – Hermione_

_ PS—Thank you._


	7. Lightning From A Clear Blue Sky

**In which a key is found, a truth unlocked, and everything threatens to fall apart.**

* * *

_Age thirty-nine, The Bluebell Coffeehouse, Godric's Hollow._

* * *

Hermione sipped her latte. It had some sort of fancy name, cinnamon something. The aroma alone made her mouth water. Coffee had always been like that—the smell of it indefinably enticing, until you tasted it. This was actually quite delicious, though. She took another sip. The mug, cupped between both hands on the table in front of her, was hot to the touch. She'd developed quite a taste for hot, steaming sweet drinks.

"The house just felt so _empty_," Harry was saying. "I couldn't handle it. I need to have you and Ron over for dinner more often."

A smile played about Hermione's lips. "We come over three times a week."

Harry dragged his hand back through his hair, a habit she'd grown accustomed to. "Well, it's _empty_. I dunno, I'm not used to it. I miss Lily. I mean, I miss all of them," he said hurriedly as Hermione grinned at him, "but you know, for the past two years it's been just her at home during the year. She's my little girl! What am I supposed to do without her?" he asked, looking lost.

Hermione smiled more softly. "I know."

He groaned and put his face in his hands. "Next thing you know, she'll be fighting trolls and playing Quidditch and ignoring the school rules and putting on _makeup..._"

Hermione laughed. She had no doubt as to which of those things he dreaded the most.

Harry let his hands fall to the table, his glasses slightly askew. He looked at her. "How do I stop it?"

"You don't," she said. "Any more than I can stop Hugo from trying to make his name in the fashion of Fred and George, or the Marauders." She lifted the mug, staring down into it, considering. "I'm not too pleased to be alone, either."

"How d'you mean?" Harry glanced around the little coffee shop, his gaze sweeping easily over the woman in the florid pink dress and hat adorned with a vulture. A chiming bell rang somewhere in the back as a young Muggle couple came in and went up to the counter. Hermione looked up at the little blue flowers in the hanging basket above their table by the window. She really quite liked this place.

"When your note came, I was just...sitting on the landing outside their rooms," she said. She glanced at him. "You know Ron got called in."

"Yeah, that's part of why I owled you."

She smiled faintly. "I was just sitting there, not doing anything. I can't remember the last time I had that little energy, you know? I cleaned all day yesterday and today, there's nothing left to do, no spills to mop up, I don't...it breaks my heart," she said, and felt her eyes sting. "Makes me wonder how my parents did it. Let me go. How do _any_ parents send their children off to boarding school?"

"At least we still have each other," Harry said, grinning lopsidedly. Hermione's heart skipped a beat and she swallowed. He shrugged, gestured with one hand. "The four of us, I mean."

Of course. She nodded. "Yes, that is good."

"How's Ron? Other than at work. How's he taking it?"

"He's used to it already," she sighed. "He grew up with it, though. All of his siblings went off to Hogwarts when they were young; it's a part of his upbringing. I suppose it's just something you accept early on. And Ginny?"

Harry shrugged and grimaced a little. "The same. She mentioned last night that it'll be _nice_ not to have them 'running around underfoot', making messes and being noisy like they were all summer." He rubbed his forehead. "She sees it as a break. I dunno...maybe we're wrong, maybe we should look at it like a vacation, but I don't _feel_ wrong. Do you?"

Hermione shook her head. On impulse, she reached out and squeezed his hand across the table. He looked at her, and she half-smiled. "No."

Harry sat back in his chair, sighing heavily, and stared blankly at their joined hands as he frowned slightly, his thoughts obviously far away. His thumb brushed her palm and she had to close her eyes. Even still. Even now. After everything, after she'd tried to push him out, even though she had a family that they shared and loved. It wasn't fair. Her brother-in-law. And even still.

"Hermione, have you ever wondered...if they weren't...pushed on us, what would have happened?"

Somewhere inside of her, a light shone on a key.

Harry carefully did not look at her eyes. "I mean...I just wanted to say, you and I, we're...we seem to be more similar, I guess, than I've...hell, I'm botching this," he muttered, and shifted in his seat. He did not let go of her hand. "I just think, you know, maybe...if Ron wasn't in the picture, or Ginny, I would...you and I, I think, would've made a good—quite a good thing, I think."

There was a lump the size of a boulder in her throat. The key turned.

"Am I making sense? I sound like an idiot. Do I sound like an idiot?"

She swallowed, or tried to, her eyes wide and stinging, her heart overfull. She couldn't form words. She shook her head, slowly.

Harry finally, hesitantly, met her eyes. "I just...think we could have been something, too, if we hadn't been with...them. We think the same. Have you ever noticed that? It's been bothering me—not bothering me, I've just noticed it over the years, you know? We're...we're good. I'm just trying to say I appreciate having you around when Ginny's...being Ginny." He swallowed. "I'm just...happy you're my friend. Hermione."

She felt weak.

Harry pushed himself back from the table, stood and stretched. "Do you want to walk for a bit?"

She nodded.

He came around and offered her his hand, which she, tremblingly, took. He pulled her to her feet. He was standing very close to her, and her breath quickened involuntarily. She was afraid to look up at him, afraid of what he might see in her eyes; afraid, and breathing very shallowly. Harry didn't let go of her hand, again. "You haven't said anything. Am I a right idiot? I just wanted to...I dunno," he said, sounding worried.

She turned her face up to his and met his anxious gaze. "I'm very glad you're my friend too, Harry," she said, and the words shook as she spoke them. Her legs felt like they might give out. Blood was rushing everywhere all through her, livening her veins. She swallowed. Her throat stuck. His eyes were so green.

She felt something brush her cheek—the backs of his fingers. She was lost in his gaze. Merlin preserve her. This was not good. Oh, god. Ron hadn't looked at her like that since..._ever._ Oh god oh god oh god oh god. Why wasn't she pulling away? A voice was screaming in her mind, her ears were roaring, her stomach was doing somersaults, and her hands were coming up to touch his face, oh _god!_

And then he was kissing her, in the middle of a little coffeehouse in Godric's Hollow, blocks from where he lived with her husband's sister and her niece and her nephews, and he was so warm, and his mouth was so tender and his kiss was so careful it felt as though he was afraid to break her, as though she were a fragile piece of glass. And oh, she loved him. Oh, god, this was not, not good. It was good. It was so good. His mouth moved over hers, slowly; his hand came up to touch her cheek, moved forward to brush the side of her neck and slipped into her hair, sending shivers all down her spine. Her skin tingled. She was standing, kissing Harry Potter, someone not her husband, not the father of her two children, not him, not him. _Oh god._

He pulled her closer. His arm tightened around her waist. And then he stopped, broke away, let her go, stumbled back a step. Green eyes wide. Breathing—panting. He swallowed—so did she. Opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Swallowed again, looking away, around at the walls, anywhere but at him. This—she couldn't believe how clichéd all this was. She felt ridiculous. And like her blood was on fire.

"H-hell," she stammered. "Ass. Damn it."

Harry burst out laughing.

A startled moment later, Hermione did too. Nervous laughter. She dragged both hands back through her hair, tangling her fingers in it, clutching at the roots. "Wow," she said, swallowed again. "Oh...oh god."

"I am so sorry," Harry gulped. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry."

"_Hell,_ Harry."

"I know!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry!"

"What..._was_ that?"

"I just—you were—I just—shit," he finished lamely. He spread his hands, half-shrugged.

"You just shit?"

"What—no," he said, and laughed, again. He dragged his hands through his hair. She was still clutching her own. He scrunched his eyes shut. "No. God. Hermione, I'm sorry, that was stupid, I don't even, I don't know where that came from, I've just been—Ginny and I have been—fighting, a lot, lately."

Hermione slowly lowered her arms, letting go of her hair. She stared at him. "What?"

He looked anywhere but at her, his turn to. "We've been fighting. I don't know. I'm _sorry_. You and I, we've always been, I mean you're always the one I go to when she and I are...and lately, you know, it's been...and with the kids gone, it's like, why are we even..."

"Harry," Hermione was shaking her head, "Harry, no, don't talk like that—"

"It's true, I've been thinking it, I'm serious."

"No—"

"_Yes._ We're growing apart. We've been married seventeen years. Did you know that's one of the most common times for marriages to fall apart?"

He was spewing _statistics_ at her? "Fall _apart?_ Harry, oh my god, are you and Ginny splitting up? Are you getting _divorced?_ What's—are you serious?"

"I am serious." He was looking at her now.

Oh, god. "And this—THIS was your way of, of _telling_ me?" she asked, her voice rising.

Harry glanced around them nervously. Other people in the coffeehouse were starting to look at them. "Here, let's walk and talk," he said, and came around beside her, taking her elbow to guide her out the door. Dazed, she let him. Out on the sidewalk under the clear blue sky in the sunshine—where had the sunshine come from? It had been grey and overcast and windy all day—she found herself at a total loss for words. At the end of the block she stopped where she stood and turned to him.

"Harry, tell me this isn't just something you decided to do today, suddenly. Are we going to pretend you didn't just kiss me in there?"

He rubbed his face with one hand. "I, er..."

"Because hey, I get that you're on the rocks with your wife. I've been on the rocks with Ron since we were eleven years old. But Harry, what—what are you doing? Hey," she said, and tugged on his sleeve, making him look down at her. She looked up at him. Said again, more quietly, "What are you doing?"


	8. An Ending to a Dance

**A/N: Well, it's been a few years. The Harry Potter bug has bitten me once again. Last time we saw Harry and Hermione, he had just kissed her in a little coffee shop in Godric's Hollow.**

"Hey," Hermione said, and tugged on his sleeve, making him look down at her. She looked up at him. Said again, more quietly, "What are you doing?"

Harry rubbed his face with one hand. It was then that she noticed the bags under his eyes. "Hermione, I'm sorry. I'm way over the line here. I'm just...so upset with Ginny these days, and you've always been...damn it, you've always been there for me in a way that, literally, no one else has. I...I don't know what to say." He closed his eyes and breathed heavily. "I'm just...confused, right now."

She laid a hand on his arm and watched him with worried eyes. She wanted so badly to touch his cheek, gently guide his gaze to hers, tell him with her smile that everything would be alright - like he'd done so many times. Her heart ached. _He just kissed me_.

"Harry," she said.

There was a momentary pause.

Harry turned to her, opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked away. He covered his face with one hand. Hermione caved - she gathered him to her and hugged him, and he rested his cheek on her hair. She breathed him in. He smelled of coffee and wood smoke. She loved him. Always had. When she thought about the night before her wedding, the day of Rosie's birth, times when he had been the only one she wanted to see - sometimes it was a different kind of love than that which she should have had for her brother-in-law, or even for her best friend. Even for the person she'd known longer than anyone else in her life. Sometimes it was more. She had tried, several times, to let it go. She'd locked those feelings away and thrown away the key, years ago - but they hadn't gone away, had they?

_He just kissed me._

She murmured into his chest, "It's okay. You must be hurting, so much. It's hard when you're fighting with...with someone you care about."

"We fight _all_ the time," Harry said.

"I'm so sorry."

"_I'm_ sorry. I crossed a line. I don't know where it came from."

Heart in her throat, barely able to swallow around the lump there, Hermione pulled back and looked up at him. "It wasn't...something I'd never thought about."

Harry's eyes were unreadable. He looked away, over top of her. "Don't say that. Please."

Hermione ducked her head, cheeks heating up furiously. "Sorry." She hated herself for a moment. Why did she open her mouth? It was his own fault anyway. She'd thought it was appropriate, considering...considering. He'd said it first - he'd _done_ it first. How was that fair?

_He. Just. Kissed. Me._

Hermione looked up.

Before she could say anything, Harry spoke.

"I've been fighting with her for ages. I did this all wrong. I just wanted to talk today. I don't know why I - what do you mean, you've thought about it?" He pulled away at last, so that they stood apart on the sidewalk. "Are you and Ron okay?"

"We're fine," she sighed. "I just - he's not the person I talk to about problems, you know? He hates that. Sometimes..." She sighed again, and started walking slowly as Harry fell into step beside her, his hands in his pockets. They both shrugged their shoulders up against the cool September breeze. "Sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing, getting married so early."

She paused. He didn't interrupt, and she was grateful for his silence, taking a deep breath and letting it out. "I know it seemed so natural because we'd all known each other for so long - but it was fast, for me at least. I never expected to get married until I was thirty or so. Or maybe my late twenties. That's when my parents got married. Ron and I were twenty-one when he proposed. I don't know if that seemed crazy to you too, I think maybe it's a wizard thing, but it was crazy to me. And..." she trailed off, staring blankly ahead. The lump in her throat swelled up. She fought back embarrassed tears as her eyes burned, and she lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. "I - I was sort of cornered when he asked me. Everyone was there. What could I say? In front of everyone? I wanted to talk, but I just had to...what could I say?"

They walked, slowly and in silence, for a few long minutes that seemed to stretch for hours. Every second dragged behind her, carrying the weight of what she had just admitted. Her eyes blurred with tears that she wouldn't let fall. The sky was so, so blue.

Somehow, they made their way to a little church with a trellised gate, achingly familiar. Hermione turned her steps towards it, and Harry opened the gate for her. They walked through the low grass around the side of the church, lovingly manicured along the well-trod path, through the rows of stones until they came to a white marble tombstone with two engraved names, and they stopped. The crisp sunshine seemed at odds with the memory of the first time they went there, during a soft snowfall on Christmas Eve nineteen years ago.

It had become a ritual for the two of them. Every year on Christmas Eve, after they put their children to bed, Harry and Hermione left their homes and went to the Godric's Hollow cemetery together. Ron and Ginny were never invited, though both of them had asked to be many times. It was a private thing, something indescribably intimate, between Harry and Hermione. A time, once a year, for remembering, for reflecting, for grieving. Hermione fiercely protected the sanctity of that time, their time, and never spoke about it to Ron, or anyone.

"I never knew you were having doubts."

"Hmm?"

Harry spoke without looking at her, still gazing down at the grave. "You never told me you hadn't wanted to marry Ron."

"It wasn't that I didn't want to marry _him_," she said, "it was that I didn't want to get _married_. To anyone. I just thought we were too young. _I_ was too young. Harry, we fought_ all the time_. That's not healthy; that's not right. How could we know whether we'd ever be able to communicate well? We weren't even finished growing, for goodness's sake! I mean, we've managed, of course, but...look at us." She closed her eyes. "Look at us, Harry."

She felt him move beside her. Harry turned to her, his green eyes still so dark, so unreadable. Hermione glanced down at the tombstone again. She hated feeling like this. "I never thought I'd have so many regrets."

He kicked lightly at something in the grass. "You don't regret Rosie, or Hugo."

"No," she said with a heavy sigh, stretching her back and her neck from side to side. "I certainly don't." A smile ghosted across her face. "Thank you."

Some few minutes went by without either of them speaking; the brisk air snapped around them and swayed the branches of the trees lining the cemetery, whose leaves were just starting to turn to gold. The rustling of the wind was all they heard for a while.

When Harry spoke, he spoke softly. "You know, I never told anyone, but I almost..." He let out a sudden wry chuckle, and shook his head. "I almost did something very stupid the night before our wedding. You remember, at the bed and breakfast?"

"Belle's," Hermione said.

"Yeah." Harry shuffled his feet and glanced up at the clear sky, then back down to the grass. "I had a - I guess a cold feet moment. I couldn't sleep - didn't get to sleep for hours that night - and at one point I got up to go to the bathroom, and I ended up going down to the second floor, and I almost...I almost knocked on your door."

Hermione's heart crashed against her ribs.

"Just to talk, you know, just...I wanted to talk to you."

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

"I figured if there was anyone who could calm me down, it was you."

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I just-"

Hermione reached up, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. For a moment he almost reeled back, startled, but then his hands were in her hair and he was kissing her right back, and nothing had ever felt so good, so right, like such a perfect fit. Thoughts ran fleetingly through her mind - _this is wrong_ -_ what are you doing_ - but they disappeared in a dizzying rush of sensation that spread through her body from her head to her toes. Nothing - _nothing_ - had ever felt so right.

When they had to breathe, they pulled away, slowly. Her lips felt swollen, her cheeks hot. He pressed his forehead to hers, keeping her close; he still held her in his hands, kept running his fingers through her hair, sending shivers down her spine. Her heart had never felt so full.

"I love you."

He kissed her again, slowly, and she wound her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. She pressed her cheek against his and closed her eyes, knowing they would overflow with tears if she didn't. This man. This man was who she should have married.

They stood there in each other's arms for a very long time, alone in the cemetery, too overcome to speak. The sun inched down across the sky, eventually disappearing behind grey clouds, leaving the day overcast again. The chill in the air sharpened, the wind picked up. Neither of them wanted to move; to leave the cemetery would shatter this feeling, bring back the reality of their situations, and everything would change. As long as they stayed still, stayed here, nothing would ever have to. As long as they held each other, they could stay blissfully, silently still, and time would move on without them.

Perhaps, one day, there would come a time when they would be able to be together. All things are possible. The weight of family might crush this fledgling thing, this fragile feeling, this...slow beginning of a dance. Or perhaps it was the ending of a dance that had been happening for years, and was just now coming to a close. No one standing in that cemetery could say what the future might hold.

But Hermione had three words to hold in her heart, that warmed her even in the cold, September air.


End file.
